


Purveyor of Dreams

by eilonwy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Fluff, HP: EWE, Humor, Magical Artifacts, Post-Hogwarts, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-05
Updated: 2008-09-05
Packaged: 2017-10-25 17:47:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/273057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eilonwy/pseuds/eilonwy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermione has a problem.  The potential solution is just too absurd... isn't it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Purveyor of Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> This ficlet was written for Dramione Drabbles-LJ's 2008 Labor Day Challenge, in which participants were randomly assigned jobs around which to create a drabble. Mine was "flying carpet merchant."
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** In its use of intellectual property and characters belonging to JK Rowling, Warner Bros, Bloomsbury Publishing, et cetera, this work of fiction is intended to be transformative commentary on the original. No profit is being made from this work.

It was all about the dreams, really. Or, to be more accurate, the nightmares. Invariably, they began the same way every time: there would be that sick, clutching sensation at the pit of her stomach, and then she would find herself being sucked higher and higher into the sky with nothing but insubstantial _air_ around her and nowhere to go after that but _down_.

For a bright, accomplished witch who was ordinarily quite fearless about most things and who had already faced down more dangers than any one person should be expected to in a single lifetime, the fear of flying was something that remained a persistent thorn in Hermione Granger’s side. At twenty-four, she was well on her way to carving out the life she had always envisioned for herself: a satisfying and challenging job in research for the Ministry, friends she loved and who loved her in return, a life that was, for the most part, filled with the many small pleasures that added up to contentment.

But. Of course, there was a “but.” Because she didn’t quite have it all, not yet. And then, of course, there was this damned fear that persisted in haunting her dreams.

She’d tried everything she could think of to expunge it from her subconscious: healer-prescribed potions, psychics, strenuous physical exercise that would exhaust her so that her sleep would be deep and dreamless. Nothing seemed to work. If anything, the dreams were becoming even more intense.

People had begun to notice too. Unwelcome remarks about how pale and listless she was starting to look became a fairly frequent irritant at her job and when she was out with friends.

“ _Don’t_ tell me how dark the circles are under my eyes!” she’d snapped one evening when she, Ginny, and Luna were having a drink at a pub, pre-empting the comment she could see was coming her way. “I _know!_ ”

“Look, I’ve an idea,” Luna had suggested brightly. “Flying’s not just done on a broomstick. There are other ways. Magic carpets, for instance. If you ask, the carpet merchants will take you up for a trial flight. It might just help.”

Shades of the Arabian Nights! Hermione had bitten back an incredulous giggle, immediately picturing herself in one of those skimpy outfits, flying through the air on a rippling carpet in the arms of a swarthy prince.

“Oh come on!” she’d snorted, turning back to her drink. “That’s just daft!”

And yet… against her better judgement, the idea had taken hold. Just maybe it really would make a difference. And anyway, she wouldn’t be up there on her own—it would be under completely controlled conditions and totally safe. What did she have to lose?

And so it was, not long after, that she found herself standing in front of S. Gregorius and Sons, Purveyors of Fine Flying Carpets.

The carpet merchant, a wizened old man wearing an oversized, faintly dusty velvet cap that partially obscured his eyes from view, leaned forward and regarded Hermione speculatively.

“And?” he asked gently, raising a glass of amber-coloured tea and then dipping a sugar cube in. “What may I do for you, young lady?” He popped the sugar cube into his mouth and gave it a pronounced suck.

“Well, you see, I…” Blushing, Hermione ducked her head so that she could whisper her shameful predicament into the merchant’s ear.

His bushy eyebrows rose a tad, the faintest hint of a smile quirking his lips. “I believe I may be able to assist you, Miss Granger,” he told her. “But trust is everything in overcoming fear. Have I yours?”

She nodded, her hands suddenly clammy as she folded them together on the countertop.

“Good!” Mr. Gregorius rubbed his hands together with satisfaction. “Come back tomorrow evening at sunset. It is the perfect time for a trial flight.”

The bell tinkled on the door as it closed behind her, and a tousled blond head appeared from behind some shelving.

“I’d like to be the one to take her up,” its owner said.

Stefano Gregorius said nothing, merely lifting an eyebrow curiously. He wondered what had impelled young Mr. Malfoy-- naturally gifted in the design of beautiful, aerodynamically perfect enchanted carpets and yet not terribly ambitious despite such gods-given talent-- to seek this particular assignment out so eagerly.

 

*

 

Sunset arrived far too quickly the next day for Hermione’s liking. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she forced herself to retrace the path to Mr. Gregorius’ shop.

“One of my assistants, Mr… uh... Marlowe… will be taking you up, Miss Granger,” the carpet merchant began. Why “Marlowe” had insisted on disguising himself with a Glamour was mystifying, but his employer had long since learnt not to question the intense and enigmatic young wizard.

The young man who stood before Hermione was striking, his longish hair a rich sable colour, his eyes dark and lustrous. Tall and lean and comely, he held himself with a natural grace. She noticed that his hands were especially fine, the fingers long and tapered. They were the hands of a talented, sensitive artisan.

“I’ve got the perfect carpet,” he said quietly, gesturing. “A very smooth ride. Nothing to fear, Gr—uh… Miss Granger.”

Hermione darted a puzzled glance at him but accepted the offer of his hand as he led her to the back of the shop, which opened onto a small yard. Here were parcels of rugs, rolled tightly in protective coverings. Murmuring, he pointed his wand, and instantly, one of the rugs slid off the pile and unravelled itself before them.

Richly hued, its finely woven patterns a dazzling trajectory of light and colour, the rug waited, seeming almost to hum with energy. Hermione looked expectantly at the young man. Again, he extended a hand to her, settling her before him on the carpet within the cradle of his thighs, his arms securely about her waist.

Relief. And at the same time, a jumpiness in her stomach not connected to the prospect of flight.

“Right, now, close your eyes, lean back, and relax.” His voice was a warm, husky whisper in her ear, ruffling her hair slightly. “The ascent is probably the scariest bit. Best not to look just yet.”

Swallowing, Hermione obeyed, resting her head against the reassuringly strong shoulder of her guide. A rather pleasant smell assailed her nostrils as she did, clean and distinctly masculine.

The carpet rose steadily, air rushing beneath and creating a series of gently undulating ripples that soothed, like the rocking of a cradle.

“Now. Open your eyes!”

The sight before her was almost beyond description. Painted in shimmering ribbons of peach, mauve, and twilight blue, its massive clouds tinged with purest gold, the sky was the mirror image of the very tapestry upon which she rested so comfortably in the arms of a stranger.

“What do you see?” The voice in her ear had become a caress.

“I… it’s…” Words failed her. So magnificent was this ethereal world of light and colour, she had entirely forgotten to be frightened, or even aware that the ground was far, far below them now.

“This is what it _really_ means to fly, do you see?” Fingers, long and dextrous, smoothed loose tendrils of hair from her face, trailing down to the sensitive skin of her neck and lingering there.

Dreamily, she sighed, moving her head slightly to one side, and he pressed warm lips to the pulse fluttering in her throat.

“ _Yes_ ,” she breathed.

Just then, an aurora of light blazed up in streaming rays as the sun, huge and liquid, slipped below the horizon. The carpet dipped slightly, riding a sudden air current, but it seemed no more than a gentle lull in a journey that had proven exhilarating.

When they touched down, the carpet settling as lightly as thistle, a keen disappointment that it was all over caught her by surprise. For a final moment, the stranger held her close, unwilling, it seemed, to relinquish her.

“Come back… Hermione,” he said, in a voice that seemed at once oddly familiar, suddenly, and strangely compelling. And then he was gone, and she was left alone to stand and brush herself down, blinking in the dim light of the shop.

Odd. She hadn’t told him her name.

Three nights later, there was yet another flying dream. Curiously, although it began as they always had in the past—that sickening whoosh and the sense of helplessness that was so terrifying-- this time, there was a face she hadn’t consciously thought of in some time, penetrating grey eyes fringed with dark lashes beneath a fall of silken, moon-pale hair.

And a voice. _That_ voice.

 

*

 

The bell overhead jangled and then fell silent as Hermione peered about, the shop door shutting behind her with a quiet click.

“Hello?” she called hesitantly.

Draco Malfoy stepped down from a high ladder, where he had been shelving a newly rolled carpet. A smile, slow but incandescent, lit his eyes.

She smiled shyly in return. “Take me flying, Draco?”

 

 

 

Fin


End file.
